THE FUNERAL AT MIDNIGHT
The funeral party assembled upon the ill-lit dock at eleven o’clock
that night. Although the moon was shrouded, there were no signs of
the prophesied storm. The black and green waters of the Bay rippled
gently, and only the mildest of tropical breezes swept past us. Far off
we could see the _Mary Rose_ riding gracefully at anchor, her lights
twinkling invitingly to the desolate dock. Occasionally a tug shrieked
its warning and plowed off to its berth.
Funerals are never pleasant affairs for me, and this one, with all its
attendant circumstances, brought an involuntary shiver as I waited
impatiently for the yacht’s launches. Faces of the mourners were
hardly distinguishable. Vaguely I knew that the group of four nearby,
whispering softly among themselves, were the Breese family and Gordon
Rice. At some considerable distance the shadow of the actor paced up
and down.
Neither Smith nor the Russian had arrived yet. I could expect anything
of Perutkin, but I knew that Smith was a model of punctuality and I
wondered what had detained him. His instructions to me that evening
were somewhat enigmatical. I could not help feeling that for the first
time since the case started he was withholding something of import.
Black figures glided past us--sailors and watchmen and all the dark
crew of the dock, leaving or arriving at their posts. From far off we
heard the melancholy crooning of a native love-song, punctuated by the
harsh monotonous twanging of a guitar.
I heard Rice say aloud: “What’s the matter with that launch? It’s
late.” These were the first words above a whisper that I had heard from
any of the four since my arrival.
But Rice fell silent once more. I lit a match and consulted my watch.
Then I looked toward the yacht once more and it seemed to me that the
wind had risen. The waters below us began to swirl. I saw the _Mary
Rose_ rock spasmodically. Rice looked up at the dark sky. He muttered
something under his breath.
Then we heard a taxi, and I could descry the figure of Smith rushing
toward us. He apologized hurriedly for his tardiness, and was relieved
to find that the launch had not yet started out.
“Where’s the Russian?” I asked.
“He’ll be around,” Smith said vaguely. Then he took a police whistle
from his pocket and gave three shrill blasts. An answering siren from
the yacht responded, as if the signal had been prearranged. Then we
heard the faint chugging of the launch, growing steadily louder in our
ears, and we could make out its shadowy outline as it chopped the
angry waters.
Without a word, the funeral party permitted itself to be helped aboard
the launch by the crew of two. Smith and I were the last ones to leave
the dock. The motor roared anew. I saw Rice looking up at the sky.
“We’d better hurry,” he said. “This looks like a real storm coming.”
“Oh, no,” said Smith reassuringly. “Just a bit of rain. I’ve lived
around here for five years and I know a real storm when I see one.”
I saw one of the sailors at his motor wink sardonically to the other at
this.
“Well, if there is a storm,” said Rice, “we’re going to turn back. Have
to postpone it.”
“No,” said Breese. “Don’t want to do that. I’ve got to go home
tomorrow.”
Rice looked doubtfully at him. But by this time the launch had drawn
up alongside the _Mary Rose_, and we clambered out as best we could.
The group of four proceeded immediately to the music-room, followed, at
some distance, by the actor. Smith and I paced the deck.
After a moment’s silence, Smith said, looking about carefully to
make sure that he was not overheard: “I’m expecting things to happen
tonight.”
I felt a curious tingling of excitement. I begged for some inkling of
his plans. But Smith shook his head.
“Only thing for you to do is to wait and watch. No matter what happens,
don’t worry.”
I heard footsteps behind us, and I swung around quickly. I gaped at
Perutkin--in the half light--a new Perutkin, resplendent in morning
coat and top-hat and white gloves that almost gleamed silver in the
night. In one hand he held a gold-tipped stick, which he swung with a
swagger.
“All is ready,” he announced.
As if the yacht were awaiting his command, I heard the heavy rattle of
chains as the anchor was drawn up. Then the engines throbbed and the
dock receded.
We heard the deafening peal of thunder that makes a tropical storm so
frightful. Lightning raced across the black sky. The yacht rose upon
the waves, and we felt a sudden drenching rain upon our faces. We beat
a hasty retreat to the cabin corridor for protection.
I heard the Russian chuckling, and as he came into the corridor, he
pointed to the pouring sky.
“My partner!” he cried. I could only stare at him, puzzled. A member
of the crew darted past us. We heard him slamming the deck doors and
battering them shut.
“Time to see the Captain,” Smith said. He was as puzzling to me as was
the Russian.
“Yes,” chuckled the Russian. “You’ll find him an excellent fellow. I’ve
been dining very well with him. He’ll coöperate, I assure you.”
Smith nodded and left us. The Russian paced up and down, rubbing his
hands delightedly, looking at me with a playful grin and chuckling in
high good humor. His smile did not leave him when he saw Rice emerge
from the music-room, a frown upon his ordinarily placid face.
“We’ll have to turn back,” Rice said to me. “It’s a bad enough business
for the family without this storm.”
“But, surely,” said the Russian, “you will not disobey the strict
injunctions of Mrs. Breese. It was, so to speak, her dying wish. Three
days after her death she specified.”
“Mrs. Breese,” retorted Rice, “wouldn’t want to make her family and
friends miserable. She didn’t know about this storm.”
“It would look very bad in the newspapers,” the Russian shook his head
doubtfully. He turned to me, “Don’t you think so?” And before I could
reply, “But why do I ask? We have just been discussing that,” he lied
glibly, “and you yourself made that point.”
“I can’t help it,” snapped Rice. “We’re turning back.”
He strode past us. When he had gone, the Russian laughed.
“And I would be willing to wager that we are not,” he said.
But whatever the private joke of the Russian (which Smith evidently
shared) I could not quite appreciate its humor. The yacht rolled
unmercifully, and although I am a fairly good sailor, I do not enjoy
being pitched about. Outside, the wind assumed the proportions, it
seemed to me, of a cyclone, although the Russian laughed at the
comparison.
“Why, this is excellent weather!” he exclaimed cheerfully, sitting down
upon the leather bench beside me, and holding his top-hat carefully
against his breast. “A little blow like this means nothing--nothing at
all.”
The ship’s lights blinked in my eyes as the fury of the storm
increased. I saw Smith carefully making his way down the stairs toward
us.
“Well?” said the Russian.
Smith nodded, with an air of self-satisfaction.
“Mr. Rice wants to turn back,” said the Russian.
“I know,” said Smith. “He’s still with the Captain. But it seems there
are reasons why the Captain can’t follow orders. Rice thinks the
skipper’s crazy.” Smith grinned exasperatingly.
Another peal of thunder rolled in the sky, and through the windows I
was startled by the accompanying flash of lighting.
“This may be a joke on us, at that,” said Smith, blinking.
“Nonsense!” retorted the Russian. “Rest easy, my friend. Everything is
working famously.”
Rice stumbled down the stairs, clutching the banister. When he reached
our landing, I could see his face was purple.
“Go up there and argue with that madman!” he shouted at Smith. “He
won’t turn back!”
“I’ve already done that,” Smith shrugged his shoulders. “But I wouldn’t
worry, Mr. Rice. This boat can stand a heavier storm than this.” He
drew out his cheap watch. “It’s ten minutes to twelve. Don’t you think
you’d better summon the family to the deck for the ceremony?”
Rice didn’t reply, but staggered to the first door, opened it, and then
banged it behind him.
“Excellent!” exclaimed the Russian. “We need very little now.”
He stopped short, as the dapper figure of the Captain came down
the stairs toward us. He was in his forties, with the sharp eye of
the adventurer not uncommon in yacht skippers, and with none of
the ponderous dignity that goes with commanders burdened with the
responsibility of larger craft. His blue eyes twinkled merrily as he
greeted Smith.
“All’s well,” he chuckled. Apparently he was part of the conspiracy,
too. I felt somewhat chagrined that a mere stranger had intervened in a
case in which I felt a proprietary interest.
“You won’t regret it, Captain,” Smith replied.
The door opened, and Rice emerged. In his arms he clutched a blue urn.
Here were the ashes of Mrs. Breese. The strange funeral party stumbled
after him--the elder Breese, his daughter, very white and seemingly
dazed, young Breese and the actor.
The Captain bared his head. Smith tugged at the door to the deck. The
wind howled in our ears. The mourners stumbled forward. Rice clutched
his burden spasmodically.
A driving rain beat our faces. The night was pitch black now. I heard
the door slam behind us. I heard Perutkin’s voice boom out:
“He, who has the ashes of Dora Breese, murdered by a fiend, unknown,
will now cast them into the sea, as she desired!”
I shivered involuntarily. I thought I heard a moan in the wind. Then
there was a splash. The Countess cried out. She was near me. Smith
opened the door hurriedly and as hurriedly the mourners stumbled to
shelter. The strange funeral was over.
Wringing wet, we chattered, as if in relief. Rice conducted the elder
Breese and the children back to the warmth of the music-room, where an
open fire blazed. The actor, impervious to the chill in Rice’s eyes,
stumbled after them.
“Now,” said the Russian, “come with me, gentlemen.” He included me in
his gesture of invitation.
We followed him down the long corridor to the cabins. I fell against
the wall intermittently, for the rocking of the boat grew more violent,
and the wind howled so that the very timbers rattled.
We paused before the first cabin. The Russian knocked loudly at the
door. A voice bade us enter. The Russian flung the door open.
A very pale young man greeted us.
“Now,” said the Russian, “we are complete.”
The Count Giering-Trelovitch advanced toward us.
“Into the music-room with you, my friend,” the Russian said harshly to
the man who had confessed. “Join the others! Come!”
Without a word, the young man followed. I could see by Smith’s
expression that the advent of the Count was as much of a surprise to
him as it was to me.
“You see,” said Perutkin to the detective, “I have kept my word. I have
produced him for you. It is only fair.”
Whatever else he said was lost in a convulsive shiver of the boat. The
lights dimmed and flashed crazily. Then suddenly we were plunged in
darkness. I heard a woman’s scream.